


Elements of surprise

by Aednat_the_Fourteenth



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Aramis needs a break, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mother Nature disagrees, Or so his friends believe, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aednat_the_Fourteenth/pseuds/Aednat_the_Fourteenth
Summary: When Aramis is invited to spend some days in a Comte’s estate, Athos and Porthos make him swear to enjoy the rest. And he tries to keep his word, really. But is it his fault if troubles seem to follow him everywhere? Now, he finds himself alone to save the Comte’s heir… and very much hopes that his brothers will reach them in time.--Set pre-show. Written for May 2017 Fête des Mousquetaires competition. Theme: “April showers bring May flowers.”





	1. Water

Aramis walked into the water, enjoying the unusual resistance as much as the delicious iodized air that filled his lungs. The sea rose above his knees, waves occasionally reaching his hips, the moisture and salt sticking his shirt to his skin. It should have been unpleasant but, much to his surprise, he found the feeling invigorating.

Maybe his brothers had been right.

He raised his head, gazing out across the whitecaps, wincing when he met the sun in the horizon. There was a chill in the evening air but he wasn’t cold. Casquet and Gilette had warned him about the tide that could pull you out to sea or in against the treacherous rocks hemming the alluring creeks. Yet, the waves seemed weak enough, and he had no intention of going far away from the coast. He let himself dive into the blessed water.  
His left arm was still a bit stiff, but didn’t hurt anymore.

He had never swum in the sea. Well, except this one day, at La Rochelle, when he’d fallen from the boat and had had to make his way back to shore through waves of blood and corpses, avoiding the sharp-edged reefs and the cannonballs. He’d been a bit too busy, all the while, trying to save his life, to enjoy the feeling.

After that, he’d been to Normandy a bunch of times, to escort a precious cargo on its way to the colonies, or to deliver some royal missive to a ship's captain or a spy disguised as a random traveler. But, for him, the place associated with war rather than adventure, and certainly not with leisure.  
Perhaps that was the reason why he’d fought so much Athos and Porthos when they insisted he should go and enjoy the hospitality of the Comte de Canteloup a few days before them.

“ _We’ll be on our way immediately after our return. You won’t have much time to get bored,” Porthos argued.  
_ “ _I’ll have even less if I come with you.”  
_ “ _It doesn’t take three ‘f us to deliver a contract to a wine merchant. It’s hardly a mission for Musketeers to begin with. His Majesty only sends us because Monsieur Bouillot knows Athos and will offer him an unbeatable price. Besides, you’ve had one hell of a month, and you’re still recoverin’ from your injury.”  
_ “ _I’m perfectly f…”  
_ “ _Aramis,” Athos interceded, as gently as he could while remaining inflexible. “You’ve been granted a leave. Just take it.”  
_ “ _He’s right, y’know,” Porthos concurred. “You realize even Athos takes more time off than you do?”  
_ _At that, their leader barely raised an eyebrow, and the big man insisted, a bit more mischievously than necessary: “You know what they say: sometimes, you jus’ have to step out of your comfort zone.”  
_ “ _Are you implying that my comfort zone is a place where I’m being chased, punched, and shot at?”  
_ “ _What I actually mean is that you worked too much, but you’re the one who said it.”_

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, Aramis had to admit that there had been some truth in Porthos’ statements.  
These past weeks, his usually insolent luck had seemed to desert him. He’d been caught in the act by two of his mistresses’ husbands, one of them chasing him in the streets before he had the time to put his pants back on; had received a punch in the face the day before an important Court ceremony, trying to defend Porthos after a rather heated card game; had lost his hat running after a purse snatcher; and, during their last mission – or the ‘last straw’, as they’d called it – got shot.

They’d had to escort the Comte de Canteloup from Limoges, where he was hiding after a diplomatic mishap in Spain, to his castle, where he was supposed to remain secluded, as far from the King’s eyes as possible. The man was… bizarre, at the very least. At first, he seemed the friendliest aristocrat Aramis had ever met. He had tolerated all the difficulties of the journey; never protested Athos’ choice to favor very modest inns or, sometimes, to even sleep in the open, to avoid suspicion; he’d taken all his meals with them, exchanging jokes and tales from his own missions aboard, not once making them feel like anything but fellow human beings on a common errand.  
Unfortunately, this affable demeanor had made things complicated. Tréville had expressly made clear that, if de Canteloup’s lineage, and his late father’s friendship with Henri IV, had permitted him to avoid prison, the Musketeers’ orders were to kill the man themselves rather than letting the Spaniards believe that the French Court was standing for him. What the Comte had done to cause such turmoil remained a mystery, but it seemed that Louis XIII’s clemency didn’t go as far as to createan international incident.  
Quickly, though, De Canteloup’s rudeness had come to light. On horse, he gossiped about nobility and ministers. At meals, he burped and farted profusely, offering vague excuses only when he remembered that was the thing you were supposed to do. At night, he usually woke up half a dozen times to relieve himself, bumping into dishes and other people’s baggage. Once, he’d fallen on Porthos, and it had taken all of the seasoned soldier’s experience not to reflexively throw him over and stab him in the throat.  
The Comte had laughed.  
He had been one very carefully controlled reaction away from gettinggutted, and he had actually giggled.

Four days after their departure, the Spaniards had caught up with them. The seven men had been, just like the Musketeers, in plain clothes, but nobody had wasted any timeto pretend. Shots were exchanged. Three enemies were down, and Aramis had a bullet in his arm, when everyone still standing drew their blades. He didn’t remember the commotion in detail. No master swordsman usually did. You spent years training not to have to analyze an occurring fight. He did recall the pain, the lightheadedness, the relief when he’d managed to overcome his opponent despite his wound, followed by dread when he’d raised his pistol on the last Spaniard, only to find de Canteloup right in his line of fire.

“ _You will do your best to bring him home safe and sound,”_ Tréville had stressed. “ _But under no circumstances should he fall alive into the hands of the Spanish.”_

_He didn’t think even him could make that shot._

_He didn’t want to kill de Canteloup._

_He was a Musketeer, not an assassin._

_And, as infuriating as he could be, the Comte was a good person._

_Aramis had neglected his duty before. Had, on several occasions, favored a very peculiar interpretation of orders in favor of remaining faithful to his own code of honor._

_But never had peace in Europe been at stake._

_He pressed the trigger._

_The bullet flew past de Canteloup’s head –  and Aramis could have sworn that he saw some of the Count’s hair fly up in the air – before barely lodging itself into the Spaniard’s elbow._

Not a killing shot, but de Canteloup had been pleased all the same.

Pleased enough to offer the men who were disposed to slaughter him to stay in his country estate, as a thank for having worked so hard and saved his life.

Aramis wondered if the naïve and rough Comte had been aware of the irony.

x

Aramis’ current luck being what it was, the invitation had proven itself a poisoned gift.  
The estate in question, at the edge of a small wood, was more a farmhouse than a castle. It was still far bigger than Aramis’ apartments, but left in a neglected state. The walls were damp, the corridors cold and windy and the furniture dusty, especially in the guest rooms. There was a large fireplace in the main room, which did its job of preventing every occupant from freezing to death, but provided most of the light, since the remaining two servants had apparently decided that the less money they spent on candles, the more they would keep for themselves.

Casquet and Gilette, self-declared valet and cook, were a couple. Both ageless, grey, potbellied, with a thick Normand accent, and both as lazy as corpses in the lunch queue.  
When Aramis had arrived earlier in the afternoon, the pantry was empty and the bed unmade. He had ordered the two idle attendants to take care of his room, and had gone to hunt dinner. It had rained on and off for days, and the ground in the forest was so soggy Aramis had remained on the edge. He’d come back with three hares, then found some only partially germinated potatoes in an overlooked kitchen garden, and entrusted Gilette with the whole thing before heading for the seaside.  
He would have to send her to the market in the morning, he mused between two breast strokes. And order Casquet to air the bedchambers and do something about the dust.  
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he had not been invited to play supervisor, a role he felt utterly incapable of endorsing.

_I knew I should have waited for Athos._

_Well, at least this keeps my mind busy._

Aramis didn’t like peace.  
He pretended that he did, usually when he was comfortably curled up against his last conquest, but love was heat and passion again. True peace, as appealing as it was occasionally, unsettled him. He disliked not hearing the noises of Paris through his windows, could scarcely stay two weeks without being sent on a mission and, most of all, hated being alone.  
Alone, he felt useless and bored. But, most of all, he started to think.

When they’d finally made it to Paris, after releasing de Canteloup into his men’s charge in Normandy, he wasexhausted. The infection in his wound was mild, but the light fever, combined with the indignities of travel, had been enough to render him a bit lethargic. Tréville had sent him to bed, not having any objection – as if he’d been in condition to voice one. He’d slept for ten hours, finally waking up to find a worried Porthos next to him. The big man had answered his interrogating frown, explaining that he’d been dreaming, repeating, among other semi-coherent things, “I’m not afraid.”

Aramis had dismissed his brother’s concern with a joke, but the tale had unsettled him.  
He _was_ not afraid. Hadn’t been of anything for years. He was a soldier. That meant facing death and handling it. He’d never harbored any illusion about that, not even when he’d first enlisted, more out of spite than vocation. And then… Then, he’d saved more people than he’d killed and, no matter the consequences, had never shunned fighting for what he believed was the greatest good.

  
Quickly, his superiors had noticed his special skills and had made him “more than a mere soldier”, as a smirking Colonel had once said,only half-jokingly. Aramis would have loved to claim that he had despised the dubious compliment. But, at the time, being considered better than the rest of the troops had made him proud.  
Being a sharpshooter meant that you didn’t always confront the enemy, blade against blade, in the heart of the fray, your brothers by your side. A sharpshooter was an expert. He waited for the right moment. A moment only he knew. That bid him a license to make critical decisions, and sometimes, even to circumvent orders.  
He enjoyed this.  
In fact, waiting in ambush was the one situation when being alone and in peace didn’t bother him.  
As years passed, pain and grief, along with the admirable men he’d met and whom he was now blessed  enough to call hisbrothers, had tamed his childish pride. But the feeling of fulfillment had remained.

So yes, his life choices had come with a price. But he was more than willing to pay.

“ _I’m not afraid.”_

He was cold.  
The sky was overcast, and Aramis could see some mist lifting from behind the small cliffs.  
 _It’s going to rain._  
He swam in the direction of the beach, and retrieved the rest of his clothes as fast as he could. His leather jacket on his wet shirt, he walked to the house, dreaming about the jackrabbit stew Gilette, as lazy as she was, had probably long finished cooking now.  
When he arrived at the domain, it was pouring rain, he was drenched and shivering, and his spirits, until then slightly brightened by the swim, were starting to plunge down again.  
He opened the door, and was met by the delicious smell of the food, but also with unexpected light.  
The main room was filled with candles, neatly arranged in big silver candelabras that were nowhere to be seen when he’d vainly explored the house in search of basic necessities. The fire burned high, most pieces of furniture had been dusted, the table was set and, on a comfortable chair, an elegant man was smiling at him. He must have been in his late twenties. Chubby, with a sympathetic, handsome face, red hair and a trimmed moustache with no beard.  
“Hello, my good sir,” he greeted. “I’m Eustache.”  
Aramis’ own face must have displayed a mask of incomprehension, because he appended:  
“Charles’ son!”  
“Charles?” Aramis repeated.  
“Charles de Canteloup. The Comte! He told me you would be here. Oh, Dear God! You have no idea how relieved I am !”

**x**

**À suivre :)**

 


	2. Air

"Where are your companions?"  
Aramis put his glass – was that crystal? back down on the table and wiped his mouth before echoing:  
"My companions, my Lord?"  
He was shivering a bit, his hair still wet. The young Comte had barely left him the time to clean and change before nothing but commanding him to share his dinner.  
"Oh, don't _My Lord_ me!" the man chuckled. "Everybody calls me Eustache. I don't… Well, I don't really believe in… ranks. Is your title what makes you the man you are? Don't we meet good, decent individuals, with brave hearts, in all classes of society? Of course, we noblemen have the privilege to know about the truths of the world, see the bigger picture! But do we absolutely have to make the commoners pay for their lack of instruction, when we are, collectively, responsible for it? When, and how would they learn, our peasants, felled by labor, only driven by the need to survive another day? Also, maybe **we** could learn from them, sometimes. Learn about… hard work, precisely. And simplicity! Real values! Perhaps taking a better look at those brave and honest people would bring us closer to God. Anyway… My father, as you've probably observed, is as progressive as I am!"  
Aramis was not sure what to respond to this recitation, but he didn't believe that any reply was actually expected.  
"What I meant," the Comte – Eustache – pursued, confirming his suspicions, "is that my father had let me hope to be greeted by three of our King's Musketeers."  
"My friends have been delayed," Aramis explained, taking a new sip of his wine. It was a Spanish Grand Cru, which must have cost a fortune. "They've been sent on a mission, for the King. But they should join us anytime."  
"Well, I do hope so… I… brought this premium vintage all the way from Madrid. It would be a shame to leave it to Casquet and Gilette."  
There was an insistent levity in the young man's words, but it didn't do much to conceal his palpable anxiety.  
"Does your father have reasons to believe that you may be in danger?" Aramis asked, mentally wincing at addressing a Comte in such a familiar way, but it still felt more natural than calling him Eustache.  
"Good Lord, not at all!" the young Comte exclaimed. "He merely told me about his invitation, and I was eager to meet the men who saved his life! Please, don't let my nervousness interfere with your well-deserved rest. And don't take it for anything but the thrill of being in the company of one of our King's elite soldiers. I know you must be tired from the road, but would you be so kind as to treat me with the tale of your many adventures?"  
Aramis nodded, not willing to push against such an obvious diversion of conversation. He kindly obliged to the Comte request, and told him about his most repeatable exploits. Even these watered down stories managed to make Eustache shake, blush and giggle stupidly, although this might have had something to do with the copious amounts of wine he guzzled. Once or twice, Aramis tried to come back to the reason for his worries. He finally understood that de Canteloup father had been publicly disgraced by the King, a sentence that was more than enough to crush his heir's desire of pursuing his own diplomatic life.

It was late, and the young Comte was starting to be very drunk, when Aramis called it a night. With Casquet's help, he succeeded in getting his host to bed. All the way up to the room, Eustache praised the valet's unwavering devotion to his family, that kept him secluded into this shanty house, with only his atrabilious wife for company. Aramis had not felt Gilette to be especially currish, but Casquet didn't seem to mind, so he remained silent.

The following morning, the sky was bright and the air was warm, but the pouring resumed a while later, lasting less than twenty minutes, this time, before being replaced by strong, bitter drizzling gusts.  
Aramis had been up for several hours, and both lazy servants were working, and Eustache still hadn't decided to honor them with his presence. The musketeer was contemplating the rotten weather through one of the main room's windows, wondering how long it would take before he caught a cold when the young Comte, coming down the stairs, sympathized cheerfully:  
"Worry not, my friend. It never lasts. 'April Showers Bring May Flowers.' It's especially true in Normandy! "  
_Except we're May the 23_ _d_ _already,_ Aramis mentally retorted, but he only smiled.  
"Would you spar with me?" Eustache asked out of nowhere.  
"My Lord?"  
"Eustache," Eustache scolded. "Would you spar with me? I am a man of wit, but I've always loved a good sword fight. I might be a bit out of practice, however. So many years representing my country all over Europe, and ensuring the well-being of my people anytime I come back home, has left me regretfully little time to exercise. Still, modesty aside, my instructors used to assert that I was rather gifted."  
_I'm sure they did,_ Aramis thought, and wished once more that his brothers were there. He could practically see Athos feigning an urgent task to sigh unnoticed and Porthos biting his tongue not to give the pampered man a piece of his mind.  
But Eustache was now giving him the puppy eyes and he couldn't help smiling. He'd always be fond of eccentric characters.  
"It would be my pleasure," he assured. "We can go as soon as the rain stops."  
Eustache frowned.  
"The rain? That's no rain! Come on! Don't tell me that a great warrior like you wouldn't face Mother Nature's disputable distribution of prodigality!"

x

Aramis walked through the crowded street along the harbor, his big basket in hand, and could feel his frustration giving way to something that was almost serenity.  
The market was large, for such a small village. Many vociferous fishermen were selling their morning catches, and the vegetables, milk products, cider and meat vendors, despite outnumbered, were trying their best to match their volume. Competitors also yelled at each other, from one side of the street to the other, exchanging jibes or insults, depending on whether they were friendly rivals or open enemies. Earlier, two cheese merchants had almost come to blows, and it had taken four men to separate them. Some goods had fallen on the ground, and oblivious customers were stepping on them, not minding the juicy mud staining their boots, clogs, and the bottoms of their pants and skirts. Horses and oxen, despite being locked in pens filled with straw, were making everyone enjoy the stinking products of their digestion.

This place was a noisy, smelly and dirty mess.  
Sweet Jesus, it felt so good!  
It would have reminded him of Paris, if not for this damn wind.  
The same wind he'd spared in with Eustache the afternoon before.  
The same wind that had accompanied the drizzle of two days ago.  
The drizzle they had also exchanged attacks and parries under because, "that was no rain".  
The drizzle that, despite the old saying's overconfident predictions, hadn't stopped once.  
Aramis sniffed, and retrieved a handkerchief to blow his nose.  
Two days in the young Comte's company had made him more tense and tired than he'd been when he'd left Paris.

Eustache was actually a very bad swordsman, but he wasn't stupid, and had noticed immediately how much the Musketeer was sparing him.  
"Stop making things so easy for me!" he'd laughed. "I'm not made out of sugar! Come on. Give me your best! I promise I won't make you hang!"  
Aramis had ignored the distasteful jibe and raised the level; only slightly, but that had been sufficient to disturb his out of practice – and talent – opponent. After tiring up of repeating "Your guard! Your guard!" the Musketeer had settled on disarming the young Comte over and over, a game the man had surprisingly seemed to enjoy.  
Only when the wind had become strong enough to tear Gilette's forgotten laundry away from the line and make some of Casquet's rusty tools fall over, had he managed to convince Eustache to come inside.  
The confinement had been worse.

Having a Comte proclaim his ignorance of class barriers was not as comfortable as it should have been, because being blind to the differences didn't make them magically disappear.  
Eustache reprimanded Aramis anytime he forgot to call him by his first name – "You saved my father's life, for God's sake!" – joked with Casquet, acted flirtatious with Gilette, but still wanted his breakfast in bed, his clothes neatly folded, and someone to help him put them on in the morning. He was also, despite his own nonchalance, very strict about the hours, and frowned unconsciously when people didn't play along. So, Casquet laughed a bit too loud at his constant banter, Gilette smiled awkwardly when he made specious compliments regarding her hips sways, and Aramis, partly because he hoped to give the poor servants a break, had accepted to keep him occupied.  
But, after two days, he couldn't stand it anymore. So, this morning, he'd taken advantage of the young Comte's habit of sleeping late and intercepted Gilette on her way to the market, promising to take care of groceries.

"The Comte's son spent summers here when he were a child. But it's been so long I don't think I'd recognize 'im," a still young cheese merchant said, giving him change and blushing when their hands touched. She was tall, blond, broad-shouldered and large-chested, with a thin waist. Very Norman, and very pretty.  
"Is he often around? The Comte, I mean?"  
"Oh, no, Sir. I only saw him a couple 'f times. He lived in Portugal, I think. Or Italy? And he's got his castle, in Canteloup. But he's a good man. Always a kind word for us. Same cannot be said 'f the other lords here."  
" _Mademoiselle_ , I refuse to believe any man would be coarse enough to disrespect you."  
She blushed again, but quickly regained her composure.  
"You stayin' long?" she asked.  
"A couple of days. Maybe more. Two friends are to join me and enjoy the pleasures of your charming region, but duty will call soon enough... I'm Aramis, by the way. From the King's Musketeers."  
Her eyes widened, and her smile could have split the wind and brightened the sky.

x

It was almost noon when Aramis came back to the house with his groceries, and he hoped that his delay would not force Gilette to face the young Comte's wrath. It would be the woman's fault, obviously, to have neglected to ensure a stock and maintain the kitchen garden, but he'd been the one offering the cook to get the groceries, and he felt a little bad betraying her trust.

Here he was, balancing between satisfaction and guilt, when he heard galloping horses. He turned on his heels to see a group of six men, all in brown leathers, riding very fast, about five hundred yards away. At this distance, it was impossible to distinguish their features, or any mark on their clothes or saddlebags, that would allow to identify them. But their postures, silhouetted against the open, green land, indicated the strength and confidence of seasoned warriors.  
They were heading in towards the estate.  
Aramis quickened his pace, mentally cursing himself for leaving his horse at the stable. When he made it to the house, he was met by a distressed Gilette who ran at him and yelled:  
"Wher' the hell hav'yer been?"  
He considered reminding the woman that you were not supposed to speak like that to your master's guest, but the panic in her teary eyes nipped his indignation in the bud.  
"What happened?"  
"He left, Sir. He looked at'he window, and 'came as white as the King's sheets, he did. Said somethin' 'bout somebody killin' him and ran. Casquet went af'er 'im."  
"Did men come to the house? Six men? Mounted and armed?"  
"No Sir. But I heard horses when I were in the kitch'n. That's when I wen'to the door and saw the youn'mast'r. Do yer think they'll hurt 'im, Sir? Do yer think they wan'to hurt our good mast'r?"

**x**

**À suivre :)**


	3. Earth

_“What would I do here, all by myself?”_  
_Porthos sighed:_  
_“Read? Pray? Meet new people?”_  
_“Rest?” Athos deadpanned, and Porthos carried on before Aramis could come up with a snappy retort:_  
_“Hunt? Fish? Jus’ have nice long walks by the sea? You like nature, don’t you?”_  
_“Mmm,” Aramis grunted. “Nature is fine.”_  
_Porthos chuckled:  
_ _“Yeah, we all know you’ll get bored after a few days, but that’s when we’ll join you. So jus’ go and enjoy the break in the meantime, right?”_

x

 _Hunting: done._  
_Fishing: done._  
_Reading: would have been done without Eustache around.  
__Strolls: didn’t imagine them like that, but let’s_ pray _that I’ll find the idiot before he kills himself,_ Aramis thought, as he almost lost a boot in the mud for the third time.

His first impulse had been to take his horse, but Bella wasn’t saddled, and equipping her would have taken too long.  
He had no idea where the cavaliers had disappeared to, but they'd seemed confident enough, and he feared that they’d reached the young Comte before him.  
He spotted a silhouette, further on the so-called “path” that threatened to bury him.  
Casquet.  
The valet, despite undoubtedly knowing these woods better than Aramis did, was struggling so much against the wet dirt that he looked ready to fall on his face and drown. He was muttering some local obscenities, and giving angry harm movements to remain straight, but only managed to postpone the inevitable moment when he’d turn himself into a muddy pile of flesh.  
“Casquet!” Aramis called, as low as he could to still be heard. “Casquet, wait for me! Casquet!”  
The third call, reaching the man between two curses, had some effect. Casquet turned on his heels or, more exactly, turned above his heels, which remained stuck in the dirt. His arms span even more, and he made a quite impressive hip action that managed to save him from an undignified faceplant, but not from a fall on his ass. It was a two-step fall, actually, since he found himself sitting on the ground for two good seconds before said-ground tried to swallow him and his bottom, hips and waist disappeared into the mud. He yelped and shouted:  
“Help! Oh God! Help me! Help me please!”  
“Jesus!” Aramis muttered in his beard, and signed himself in penance.  
He half-walked, half-paddled in the direction of the stuck man and offered him a hand. Casquet took it and immediately pulled, almost causing Aramis to fall in turn.  
“Stop it!” the Musketeer ordered. “Don’t move, don’t pull, just relax and push on your legs when I say so.”  
Casquet nodded a wary agreement and Aramis started to drag him up.  
“Perfect. You’re doing great. Now push. Push on your legs!”  
The man complied and Aramis put a hand on his back to stabilize him.  
“Don’t fight me. Just push. I won’t let you fall.”  
He felt the valet’s weight on him and slid a leg back to strengthen his equilibrium. It was the right move, since Casquet, as soon as he was released from the mud, put both arms around Aramis’ shoulders. The Musketeer stepped backward, until he reached the edges of the path, that had resisted the rain a bit more. There, he sat and just pushed Casquet aside. The man settled there with a gurgling noise and remained here, not even trying to remove the dirt. Aramis detachedly advised his own clothes. He looked better than the valet, but his legs were all muddy, matching the big patches on his doublet, where the man had clung to him. His entire body smelled like pine and humus.

_One more hazard like this one, and I’ll blend into the environment._

He had regretted a bit not to have taken the time to put on his Musketeer outfit, but was suddenly glad to be free of the heavy leathers.  
“Are you okay?” he finally asked Casquet.  
“Yehhhssir,” the man panted. “Thank’yer Sir.”  
“Good. Do you have any idea where your master may have run to?”  
“Not’sure, Sir. Saw him headin’ to _La Combe du Diable_.”  
Devil's comb. Well, that sounded appealing.  
“I’ll show yer, Sir,” Casquet carried on, but his voice was unsteady.  
“Is it far?”  
“Not at al’Sir. Jus’ behin’ the slope,” the valet answered, raising a muddy arm towards a perfectly even ground, but Aramis supposed it started to slop, after the path turned to the left, a bit more than a hundred yards away.  
“Good,” he said. “I will find him and keep him safe.” He saw the man’s face brighten, but the wariness came back when he amended: “But I need you to do something for me.”  
“Sir?”  
“Can you ride?”  
“I can stay on the sadd’l, Sir.”  
“That should be enough. Go back to the estate. Slip out the back, and don’t go inside. They might have posted a sentry. Don’t make yourself be seen, take my horse and head to the town. Notify the authorities and try to come back with a patrol.”  
Something passed on the man’s face, and Aramis, who really needed to believe in human nature right now, decided it was fear rather than annoyance.  
“Do you know who these men are?” he asked.  
“No Sir! Don’hav’ the slight’st idea, I swear!”  
“You sure? The Comte didn’t say anything to you about feeling threatened? Maybe something in connection to his stay in Spain?”  
“I swear, Sir,” he repeated. “Jus’ ran aft’r the young mast’r, is all. Please, Sir, can I go now? I’ll bring the patrol wiv me, I promise!”  
Aramis sighed.  
“Right then. Go. And don’t waste time cleaning up,” he added, and knew that this had been a good precaution when the man’s face dropped. “Your master’s life may depend on you.”

Watching the valet regain the house at a snail’s pace, carefully avoiding the muddiest part of the path, the Musketeer wondered if appealing to his responsibilities had been a smart move. For all he knew, Casquet might as well feel overwhelmed by his new burden and start to panic. What if he broke a leg in the muck? Or look like a complete lunatic while explaining the situation to the authorities? Maybe he’ll even collapse in his wife’s lap and stay there, complaining about himself, letting Aramis alone to protect his young master against four armed men on horses.  
He resumed his walk, stumbled on a rock hidden in the dirt, and mentally cursed this damn weather. If he’d felt unlucky in Paris, it hadn’t been, back there, as if the elements themselves had been trying to kill him.

_At least, this mess keeps me occupied._

As he reached the left turn and saw the ground sloping indeed, he couldn’t help but chuckle.  
Yes, the weather was awful. However, the situation, as ridiculous and dangerous as it was, was an adventure. He hated walking in this muck, sniffling and shivering, at the rescue of an idiot with a very patchy sense of preservation, but the idea of confronting up to six warriors all by himself, with just his guns and blades left him with an impression of fulfillment.

_I now have a purpose._  
_I’m doing what I’m good at._  
_Maybe I’ll have time to ambush them._  
_I’m certain I can take two down and jump at the others before they know what’s happening. Will I be able to face four on that ground?  
_ _I can’t wait to find out!_

_“Are you implying that my comfort zone is a place where I’m being chased, punched and shot at?”_

Well, maybe it was.

_“I’m not afraid.”_

Aramis frowned.

_I’m not._

A sudden yelp dragged him away from his thoughts. He was at the top of an abrupt declination. Not a comb, but it might have been one at the time it was named. Many big rocks punctuated the slope and, in the bottom, was some hole that looked like a small cave. A cave Eustache had apparently planned to hide in before he fell on his behind.  
Aramis walked to the edge of the declination and called:  
“My Lord, come up here. That’s the first place they’ll look for you.”  
“Eustache!” growled Eustache, and he looked at Aramis with exhausted eyes. The usually elegant man was a mess. Disheveled, full of mud, his delicate clothes ripped where they’d met the rocks and brambles. “They took the other path,” he stated. “It’s a detour but it will be easier for their horses.”  
“What do they want?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Eustache, please. I can’t protect you if you keep me in the dark.”  
“Of course you can!” Eustache snapped. “You don’t have to share my secrets to draw your blade when ordered to!”  
“Oh,” Aramis smiled. “Should I call you My Lord, now?”  
Eustache blushed slightly, or at least Aramis supposed he did, under the dirt on his face. He sighed and made his clumsy way back to the edge, where he accepted Aramis’ hand.  
“We have to go up,” the Musketeer explained. “Not down. We’re outnumbered and you’re unarmed. Our only chance is to take them by surprise. Show me that other path. I’ll find a place.”  
Eustache looked like he was about to protest but eventually shrugged, and moved his chin to indicate the way.

x

They were both lying on the ground, leaving detailed imprints of their respective shapes into the mud, watching down to the drenched but paved path where the mercenaries were supposed to appear. Aramis had managed to find a rather suitable hiding place, still open enough to allow him to aim and then rush to the road before becoming a target himself. He could practically feel Eustache shiver behind him when they heard the sounds of horses.

_“My father stole jewels,” the young man had said. “A necklace and earrings that used to belong to Marie de Medici. His mission in Spain was over, there had been rumors about his… attachment. To his country. He wanted to bring them back to the King, as a testimony of his loyalty.”_  
_“That’s all of it?” Aramis had asked._  
_The deed sounded tremendously stupid, even for de Canteloup._  
_“Yes. I mean… There had been a wave of robberies, in respectable houses. He saw an easy opportunity to get back into the King’s good graces. Nobody would have known. Well,” Eustache shrugged. “I guess he didn’t expect to be caught. Last week, Richelieu convinced Louis to apologize to the Spaniards. It was… rather humiliating. For France, and for my family.”_  
_“That doesn’t explain why they’re after you.”  
_ _“Well, I… I might have distracted everyone so that my father could act undisturbed.”_

There were only four men. Aramis’ first shot hit the leading one in the head. His second another, in the chest.  
Both fell from their horses and the two remaining mercenaries dismounted at once.  
“Stay where you are,” Aramis ordered Eustache, and rushed down the slope, his sword in his right hand, his dagger in the other.

The young Comte’s story still didn’t make much sense.  
Both de Canteloup were clowns. The jewels had been given back. The family had been disgraced. Why would anyone waste time and resources sending a group of experienced warriors after the man who was nothing but an alleged accomplice?

Blades collided and steel noises rang into the forest as Aramis fought the third mercenary. The last one, seeing only one man come after them, had kneeled at the side of his friend who had been hit in the chest, which gave the Musketeer some time to assess his opponent’s skills. He was good. Not as good as him, but he wasn’t recovering from an injury; hadn’t spent the past hour stumping in the mud; his boots were not weighted by slippery dirt, and he only had to take care of himself. They exchanged a few passes, and Aramis, seeing the last man get up, tried an advanced lunge that was barely blocked. He dodged a new attack, and countered with a feint that grazed his opponent's shoulder, but the mercenary didn’t let himself be disarmed.

_I have to end this._

_Where is the other one?_

A yell.

_Eustache?_

“Eustache!”

Aramis repelled his adversary again, only to see the last man, on his mount, with the young Comte across the horse’s neckline, struggling to break free.

What has this idiot done?

_I told him to stay where he was!_

Aramis wanted to intercept the rider, but his opponent was in his way. The mercenary fled, and he could hear other horses, coming from behind. He glanced backward. The man took the opportunity to attack but, this time, Aramis simply deflected and, when his adversary, swept along by its own momentum, plunged forward, stuck his main gauche into his heart.  
The man fell, and Aramis had just the time to turn on his heels to face his new opponents before being met by the most beautiful sight since his arrival in Normandy.  
“Athos? Porthos?”  
Both Musketeers stopped their mounts by his side and Porthos grunted:  
“Is that what you call restin’?”  
There was a smile in his voice, but Aramis didn’t have time to take a joke. He pointed where the last mercenary had disappeared with Eustache.  
“Go! Go after him!”  
Athos’ lips slightly went up in turn.  
“Well, it’s very nice to see you too.”

**x**

**À suivre :)**


	4. Fire

Aramis' adventurous, reckless nature couldn't abide more than a couple of days of calm.  
So, yes, peace was not his thing. But he remembered a time where he hadn't minded being alone.

As a child, growing up in a house that never slept, full of women, clients and kids, he had even craved for some isolation. His own room had been shared with his mother!  
Some years later, in his father's castle, the loneliness had sometimes been a burden, but it was a simple question of boredom. He didn't get along with his siblings, and the family lived too far from the town to go and see his friends as much as he'd hoped to. However, he still liked the long rides, just him and his horse, the lonely hunts which familiarized him with future watches, a musket in one hand… and the occasional seclusion of his room, where he could stop and think about his life. As uncertain as his destiny had been then, and as much as it had worried him, solitude had not been a frightening experience.

_When did it start?_ he wondered, as he finished searching the last dead man's saddlebag, once more finding nothing but spare clothes, food and money.

_After the massacre, I've craved company like never before._ When he'd returned from Savoy, people had applauded his resilience. It had taken him only two weeks to come back to light duty and share meals and drinks with his brothers, a month to be able to fall asleep without waking up startled half an hour later, and a bit more than a year to definitely be rid of the nightmares. Yet, he remembers clearly how terrified he'd been, at the time, to be left on his own.  
But that had not lasted. That had been trauma, nothing more. Loneliness reminded him of the long hours he'd spent, wounded, companionless, in his bare shirt, in the snow. And he hadn't been able to fall asleep without fearing to be woken by gunshots.  
Yes, Savoy had made his dread visible.  
But it had not created it.

A deflagration in the distance informed him that Eustache was safe. Not a second did he think otherwise. He trusted his brothers with his life… and other people's too. A couple of minutes later, Athos, Porthos and Eustache were back, the young Comte riding the mercenary's horse, whose body was dangling limply across Porthos' mount. Even from a distance, he could see that Eustache's face was ashen and his limbs shaky.  
"Are you unarmed, my Lord?" Aramis inquired after everybody had dismounted and he'd hugged his timely brothers.  
"I am," Eustache replied, forgetting to object to the title, which showed, if proofs were necessary, how much this adventure had jolted him.  
"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" Porthos asked his muddy friend with a glowering look.  
Aramis grinned as he retorted:  
"I wish I knew." He then redirected his attention to the Comte and pointed at the dead mercenary: "Was he Spanish?"  
"Yes! Yes," the man answered a bit too fast, so Athos questioned in turn:  
"Did he speak to you?"  
"No, no, but… I know who they are. Well, I know why they've been sent after me, at the very least. I've already explained to Monsieur Aramis. It's all linked to my father's disgrace."  
"Let's go back to the house," Aramis suggested. "There were two more men when I saw them earlier. It's getting dark, we can't stay in the open and I fear for Gilette's safety. I'll fill you in on the way."

x

As expected, Athos and Porthos weren't much impressed either by Eustache's assertions. After the de Canteloup family public disgrace, none of the men saw any reason for a Spanish aristocrat, let alone the Spanish crown, to send a troop after the young Comte, especially since there was no proof of his complicity.  
"People like this don't need proof," Eustache had grumpily objected. His tiredness, his fear, and the general appalling state he was in didn't do much to improve his mood.  
Maybe it had not been very smart to give him an earful – as restrained as it had been – fifteen minutes before.

_"Why didn't you stay up there? You could have gotten killed!"_  
_"I wanted to help!"_  
_"You had no weapons!"_  
_"I had a stick!"_  
_"You… I'm sorry, what?"  
_ _"I… had a stick. I picked it up to… for… I… I wanted to help, alright! I'm a decent swordsman, you saw it yourself. I can be pretty dangerous with a simple stick, if I have to!"_

Only Athos discretely shaking his head and Porthos scarcely refraining himself from chuckling had convinced Aramis to drop the matter.

"Which family did you steal the jewels from?" Athos inquired.  
"The de Priorato. They are friends of the Duque de Lerma."  
The lieutenant raised a questioning brow at Aramis, who just shrugged. The Duque de Lerma, as Athos surely was aware of, was a Spanish Grandee. The de Priorato, he'd never heard about. Of course, he was far from knowing all the big Spanish families, but this tended to indicate that they were not that influent.  
"Why did they keep jewelry that used to be owned by Marie de Medici?" Athos wondered. "Was it a gift?" and, when Eustache failed to reply: "And why would your father want to give it back to the Crown?"  
"I have no idea!" Eustache snapped. "I haven't even seen the damn things. It was always best not to be in on my father's secrets. But I trusted him."  
"Well, maybe that's the issue," Aramis muttered, and Athos sent him a reproachful look.  
He waved an apology. He knew he should have been more subtle, but he was tired of diplomacy. Tact, along with the ability to see the biggest picture, was Athos' line of work. Porthos' was military strategy and fortitude; his was bravery and faith; all talents they were all perfectly capable of displaying on their own, but being around their brothers allowed them to get the better of them. There was a reason, behind the deepness of their friendship – or maybe it was the root of it – why they were called _Les Inséparables_.

After that, the young Comte retreated into silence. Athos tried to insist, but the man, after having implied that no mere soldiers were entitled to his confession, simply laughed the insult away and offered to tell them more once they were safe.  
"I can't ride and think at the same time," he said. And, realizing how dumb that made him sound, he amended: "Well, not in this state, by all means. And not with _them_." Not looking behind him, he gestured towards the four dead mercenaries on the spare horses. The two mounts were tied to Porthos and Aramis', and both men rode at a good distance from the other two, because the young Comte had vehemently refused to, as he'd expressed it, "travel in the company of corpses."  
Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks, and the amused sympathy Aramis found in his brother's eyes was enough to make him forget his weariness.

x

They smelled the smoke and heard the wood crack before seeing the house burn. The Musketeers were still exchanging worried looks when Eustache muttered "No. Oh no," and put his horse at full gallop.  
"Oi!" Porthos shouted, but the young Comte didn't slow down. Athos was already chasing him, and Aramis and Porthos, burdened with their charges, were quickly outran.

When they made it out of the woods to the estate, Athos and Eustache's mounts were strolling freely at a safe distance from the fire, and neither man was to be found.  
"Are they inside?" Aramis asked incredulously, and Porthos called:  
"Athos!"  
A stifled cry came from the house, and the two musketeers barely exchange a glance before rushing in.

The main room was a furnace, pieces of furniture slowly burning and curtains set ablaze by the flames from the kitchen. Luckily, the fire had yet to reach the stairs.  
"Check the servant's lodgings," Aramis instructed, pointing at a door behind the steps. "The cook usually takes a nap there after lunch!"  
"She would sleep while her Master is chased by bandits?" Porthos asked between two coughs.  
He moved his headscarf over his face, and Aramis only gave a "what are you gonna do?" gesture before climbing the stairs as quickly as he could.

The upper rooms were still spared from the flames, but Aramis could feel the hot floor starting to weaken under his boots. He heard the sound of a commotion coming from Eustache's bedchamber. The place was located just above the kitchen, so his noble occupant could benefit from the heat. When Athos stormed out, pulling a struggling Eustache under the arms, Aramis could see the red light inside.  
"Release me!" the young Comte was shouting. "Release me this instant!"  
The side of Athos' pants was starting to catch fire, and Aramis stepped forward and whacked his friend's leg while he strengthened his grip on the idiot.  
"Stop fighting me or I'll have to knock you out!" Athos challenged behind his scarf, and Eustache seemed to falter, only to turn to Aramis when the lieutenant resumed his way to the stairs.  
"Please!" he croaked, then swallowed a gulp of smoke, coughed, and they had reached the first step when he repeated: "Please! I'm begging you! They're in the top drawer!"  
"What? What top drawer?"  
"Of my desk! It looks like a sealed letter. We can't let it burn! My father gave up his reputation for them!"  
"What 'them'?" Aramis insisted. "What 'it'?" and Athos hissed:  
"Aramis, please!"  
"The list! Please! I'll tell you everything but you have to save it! The security of France depends on it!"

Aramis didn't know if it was this new resolution in the young Comte's voice, or the contained panic in his eyes, but he trusted his instincts and rushed towards the bedroom. Despite the roaming sound of the fire, he heard Athos cursing "Goddammit, Aramis!" before entering the furnace, barely avoiding the fall of an ablaze painting.

He spotted the wooden desk and had to jump over the flames to reach it. The floor crackled and Aramis would have gasped if his smoke-filled lungs had allowed it.

_Top drawer._

_Sealed letter._

_Got it!_

He turned on his heels and, through the smoke, made out a very angry and antsy Athos at the door. His brother stretched over and he rushed towards him, not trying to avoid the flames this time.

_They are there for me._

_Athos will catch me._

_Porthos will wait for us with some piece of cloth, or even water._

_They'll extinguish the fire._

_I'm not afraid._

He ran.

One, two, three steps.

The floor made a horrible noise.

He touched Athos' fingers.

And the last things he was aware of were his brother's eyes growing wide and the void swallowing him.

**x**

**À suivre :)**


	5. Epilogue: Light

Everything hurt.  
He tried to move and growled. Or yelped. He wasn't sure, but a growl seemed more dignified.  
Correction: everything was a bit sore and his head was killing him.  
He heard a voice. He couldn't make out the words but the tone appeared insistent. He knew that voice, even if he couldn't presently put a name on it. That was a voice he could trust. The gentle sound even managed to slightly ease his pain.

_I'm not alone._

_I'm not._

"…mis? …amis, yearme?"

That was a very nice voice. It was anxious but, yet, did its best to remain patient, and low.

"…ramis, open your eyes for me, please."

_I should make an effort. I can't disappoint that voice._

"That's it. Hey! Welcome back. Are you all there?"  
"P'thos?"  
"The one and only. No, don't try to move."

_Did I?_

"Here."  
A cup of water was held under his lips and he drank avidly.  
"Slow down. Don't make y'rself sick."  
He complied and rested his head on the pillow.

_Pillow?_

_Where am I?_

"How do you feel?"  
"Head hurts," he muttered, raising a hand to his temple.  
"Well, that's what happens when you knock it on a stone floor."  
"How long was I out?"  
"About four hours. You came to during the night, but weren't particularly aware. The you slept peacefully 'till the sun woke you," the big man explained, pointing at the window.  
There were too many words in this sentence. Aramis struggled to understand, but the effort helped clear his brain a bit. He blinked several times and managed to get a glimpse of his surroundings. He was in a bed, in a small yet comfortable room that smelled like flowers and wood. Some inn, apparently. Curtains were drawn in front of a window, not thick enough, though, to conceal the bright light. There was no fire in the chimney but the place was warm.

_At last._

_A shame I can't get out and enjoy this before it starts pouring rain again._

Well, at least he was clean and comfortable.

"You fell two stories, y'know,' Porthos murmured, for the sake of his aching head. "Dunno if it was the mud you were covered in that protected you from the flames, but y'went right through the kitchen to the basement. Which fortunately had a window big enough to come in. And you got nothin' but a nasty lump. Even Athos was burned gettin' you out of there."

_Athos!_

Aramis sat up and couldn't help a cry when a spike of pain pierced his brain. Porthos' firm hand was on his chest, and he was lying on his back again before he knew it.  
"Calm yourself. His burns weren't serious. He was given an ointment. He left to Paris less than an hour ago, with the Comte and an escort of six of the town's soldiers. Wasn't pleased to leave you, but the doctor insisted that you were safe and sound. Oh, and I failed to capture the two arsonists," the big man grumbled. "I was getting the cook out when I saw them running away in the dark. She's safe, by the way. Found her asleep in her room, as you suspected. Took a while to revive her, but she'll make it."  
"And the letter?" Aramis inquired, after he'd managed to comprehend everything.  
"You had it in your hand when we found you. And it wasn't a letter. Wanna hear the whole story?"  
Aramis very much did, but he wasn't sure he was up to it at the moment.  
"The old Comte was a spy?" he tried nonetheless.  
"You got that right. Twenty years working as an ambassador, in England first, a short time in Portugal, then in Spain. Seems that he's a kind of genius. Speaks five languages, wrote several books about philosophy and mathematics... Oh, and apparently, he's a virtuoso harpsichord player."  
For some reason, the image of rude, clumsy de Canteloup playing the harpsichord was the one thing that challenged Aramis' acceptance of the situation.  
"Nobody's smart enough to look that stupid," he decided.  
Porthos shrugged:  
"We'll just add that to the list of his many talents, hey?"  
"So he didn't steal any jewels?"  
"Oh, he did!" Porthos exclaimed, and apologized when his friend winced in pain. "He stole them right, and got caught while his son – and apprentice, 'spite not having inherited his old man's wits – was putting his hand on a list of all the high-ranked Spanish spies posted in Paris. Then, I guess someone told de Canteloup that Eustache was now a suspect, and that's why he got the idea of inviting three Musketeers to the place he was hidin'."  
Aramis opened his mouth and closed it, pretty certain he was missing something, but not sure of the question to ask. He tried to concentrate, wishing for the fog in his brain to dissipate.  
"But the king disgraced de Canteloup," he finally came up with.  
"He did, and publicly, the same day he formally apologized to the Spanish ambassador. Then, he sent the Comte back to age in his comfortable castle, where a fortune in gold was waiting for him. Seems that the man doesn't crave for honors. Will be more than happy to be alone, to… work. On new books? Or practice his scales? I dunno. Anyway, Athos believes that the idea was to rehabilitate the heir later, after he would prove himself."  
"Which he did," Aramis muttered.  
"Which he did," Porthos grunted, "if takin' credit for someone else's work is acting like a nobleman."  
"Oh, my dear Porthos," Aramis grinned. "You know it is."  
Porthos chuckled.  
"Anyway. You do have a way to get yourself into trouble even when you're supposed to rest. But your insolent luck never ceases to amaze me."  
Aramis sighed:  
"Lucky is not a word that I've found applies much to me, lately."  
"You fell several stories and made it unscathed. That's not something that happens twice in a man's life."  
"I've tried to rest – I really have," he insisted, when Porthos raised an eyebrow. "I even went swimming in the sea! But then, Eustache came, and I was left with no choice but listening to his tedious conversation all afternoon or spar with him, doing my best to prevent him from slipping and impaled himself on my blade. Stop giggling, it was horrendous! Oh, and after that, I was almost frozen to death, drowned, buried and incinerated! It was as if Mother Nature herself was trying to kill me!"  
The big man smiled again:  
"Well, you can hardly blame arson on nature."  
Aramis pouted.  
"Still."  
"Hey, you know the ol' sayin'" Porthos philosophized, pointing at the window again. "'April's showers bring May flowers.'"  
"So I've been told," Aramis sighed, but couldn't help another grin.  
Porthos frowned, failing to appear reproachful:  
"I know that smile. You actually enjoyed this!"  
"Some of it was fun," Aramis admitted. "Somehow. I met a lovely cheese merchant. And I ran through fire. Oh, and Casquet buttplanted in the mud. I just wish I hadn't missed Eustache attack a seasoned mercenary with a stick."

Both men laughed softly until Aramis barely controlled a sneeze that made him dizzy again.  
"You okay?" Porthos asked worriedly.  
"World's spinning a bit."  
His brother placed his hand on Aramis' hair, his fingers gently massaging his scalp. It was so pleasant that the wounded man couldn't hold back a content sigh.  
"Please, Porthos. Don't ever let me get a break again."  
The other Musketeer smiled.  
"You should rest now."

For once, Aramis was happy to obey. He closed his eyes and drifted immediately. He felt good, in the company of his brother. Tomorrow – or the day after if he didn't succeed in convincing Porthos that he could ride – they'll come back to Paris. To the garrison. To the noise, the filth, the familiar danger. To the thrill of adventure. To life.  
He forced his eyes half-open and looked at the man at his side, who was still stroking his hair.  
"Porthos?" he asked sleepily.  
"Mmm?"  
"Do you think it's sad that I can't stand being in peace?"  
The question took Porthos by surprise, and he pulled a face before answering:  
"Well, you're a Musketeer. You have a mission and you love it. Nothin' wrong with that, hey? It's not as if you were running from anythin', is it?"  
Aramis gave a weak smile and gratefully patted his friend's hand  
"No," he said, dozing again. "I s'ppose it's not."

**x**

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who were wondering, Normandy, aside from being where the D-Day took place, is renowned for its apples, cider, butter, and very changing weather that is the subject of a lot of jokes. It is, with Brittany, the French region with the closest climate to the English one. It doesn't rain all the time, but it can rain ten times a day, with a beautiful sun in between.
> 
> **x**
> 
> So, that was my first real attempt at a short and efficient light adventure story, in the spirit of the show. I'd really love to know how you liked it, so please, feel free to leave a review!  
>  Thanks to all of you who took the time to comment already, and for the warm kuddos :)) And a HUGE thank to my wonderful friend Kevin for the proofreading!
> 
> See you soon with the next chapter of Hope and a Future… and some new shorter stories!


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